Mental reprogramming

It will all work out or it will all collapse like a wrongly stacked deck of cards. It all depends on whom you're listening to and what you're providing growth nutrients for in that wonderful garden called your mind

From prosperity preachers and teachers to doomsday prophets and the numerous others on the belief number line, the one thing that really is the variable within your control is you

Months ago a friend and mentor introduced me to the legendary Anthony Robbins who himself learned from the late master of self belief Jim Rohn. And then there's Les Brown. Let's stop the list here.

You see, everyday something will happen to trip you up. You'll see it coming or you won't. It will manifest fully that day or just plant seeds and lay in wait further down your week or month. And if you think ideas don't run through your head all willy-nilly, do a mental exercise. Write down every thought you experience at 30 minute intervals. Been there. Done that. Sanity is a gift. Or a burden. It depends on which of your voices is strongest.

So what to do? Mental programming.  Always. Not the happy babble of just any motivational speaker who hasn't really known adversity. Or the mindless drip drip from a pastor who doesn't really understand the power of his calling beyond being an entertainer.

A friend told me once when I was going through the doldrums that I choose music which plays into how I feel. I fought that because o was in a bad place and his words didn't help the self pity I had moved into and furnished with top quality furniture. But I've since come to realize that it's true.

Just as success loves speed, so does misery love company. Think about it. You're hurting emotionally. It's music about hurting, endless glasses for alcohol takers, misery phone calls especially with those who have shared self pitying moments with you and so on. That is always a choice. Just an example

So. Mental programming. Mornings I listen to a YouTube recording from one of these mentors. I read something from the Bible that puts me in a go-forth-and-kickass mode. And lately, I guard my thoughts at work with amazing jealousy and increasing self control.

I can't stop the prosperity preacher or the doomsday prophet. I can't stop the friend or colleague or family member who chooses to only listen to and replay stuff that never ever adds anything to me. But I can change the parts of me that provide nutrients for the wrong things to grow. I remain the only variable which I can change. And so I continue. Mental reprogramming 

my good deeds Vs your bad

Why do we do these things that we do knowing full well what we do when we do the things we do? Sorry its ass-ery on a roll this morning.

So I'm listening to colleagues and friends day in day out (hate that phrase...why am I using it? Do I need a shrink?) And a common thread in conversations has been the 'et tu Brute' emotion or some variation.

Here's how it typically plays out: some long-suffering saint (me or one of the aforementioned good people of God) brings up a story, a situation, an experience in which someone dealt them a harsh blow. It would begin with a story of how much said saint, let’s call them Holy Nweje, has done for said ingrate; Lucifer, shall we? And how Lucifer becomes a turncoat and does the unthinkable namely try to lead a mutiny on The Paradise ship of heaven, and Baba God, here represented by Holy Nweje then has to cast him out into the 'wherever the hell it is you're off to' for biting the proverbial finger.

Ok ‘nuff of the crazy speak. But that's kind of how it plays out and we all know this. We all play the aggrieved party when people whom we believe owe us mental blood allegiances seem to renege on agreements never quite articulated; relatives financially dependent on the crumbs that fall from the table of our budgets, in-laws whom we 'spoil' with little gifts and uncomfortable calls and the occasional monetary gift, drivers, maids, cleaners, kids tutors etc. etc....your list may be longer because it's just about any and every one whom we have given comfort of some kind to.

So the conversation starts with the Holy Nweje listing the innumerable good deeds done for or to the cunning never-again-to-be-trusted Lucifer. It then segues into a declaration of HN's desire to never stop being a saint even if some form of martyrdom is required. And then the axe falls when the audience is listening with rapt attention found in mobs, religious congregations, people about to be separated from their money by a savvy trickster, and persons hanging on to the every word of an accomplished gossip, a practiced charmer or in this case Holy Nweje who possesses albeit unknowingly traits of all these 'professions'. At this point empathy is outta the window and sympathy sitting on a firm foundation of rage or disgust at the of course absent Lucifer, peaks in an admirable crescendo of slow judgment. Questions asked and opinions proffered all support the notion that HN is good and Lucifer is bad and has to leave heaven.

I once was cast in the ignominious role of Lucifer (Father Lord, financially let me never go there…..shuddering as the memories cause me to blink). I have been HN. I have been the sole audience. I have been in the larger audience. And I have grown enough to wonder 'why do I have to keep record of the wrongs if I really meant well and why in the world would I keep records of my good deeds only to hold them as a standard against a person whose need probably trumped their judgment?' Doesn't seem to make much logical sense does it?

love fights

Sleep a myth. Peace gone south. 

Wake up. Stay up.

 Wake up. Talk.

  Wake up shut up.

   Awake. Groggy.

    Awake. Listening.

     Awake. Muddling memories.

      Awake. Unsure. 

       Awake. Seeking.

        Awake. Reaching.

         Awake.............

 

Finding.

 Groping.

  Eager.

   Fondling.

    Cries.

     Grasping.

      Thrusting.

       Breathless.

        Grunts.

         Reaching.

          Reaching.

           Reaching...

            Soaring.

             Heights.

              Peaking.

               Riding.

                Mewling.

                 Smiling.

                  Embrace.

                   Tender.

                    Fondling.

                     Parting.

                      Sated.

                       Turning.

                        Away.

                         Silence.

                          Creeping.

                           Doubts reborn.

                            Bodies tensing.

                             Sleep a myth 

...my smile

I need to smile more often
         for my smile covers up my trepidation
         makes the tears resting gingerly on the ledge of my lower eyelids glisten as they ever so gently brim over and eventually come crashing down my cheeks in one silent wave.
        
my smile covers up many things
         the way my heart starts to pulsate to the beat of a thousand drums when I feel cornered. the way my brow draws tight in uncertainty and realization that once again I've paid the piper for a tune for a fool and danced with total abandon at his music. the frustration when I realize that in spite of my efforts this thing or that is headed for a cliff and I cant stop it.

my smile is a cocoon
         it puts everything in a time warp so I get the chance to hold still and try and make sense out of stuff which threaten to overwhelm me.
         it welcomes me in a warm teary embrace when I turn back to self, crawling on bruised knees, pride shattered and emotions in tatters
         if I stand perfectly still I can see my smile in my mind's eye. and my unending wonder at the world in all it's ups and downs and roundabouts and topsy-turvy rides.

         I smile because I can. Because to stop the smile would cause a crack. the crack would let the joy out and the darkness which always casts furtive glances my way like an illicit lover would slink along the edges of my subconscious thought and grip my brain by the roots. the darkness would steal my peace, my joy. all would come crashing down. Depressed, angry, bitter, weakened......I would cease to be creative. I would cease to smile. my lips would part in a grimace; like the snarl of a cornered dog. My tears would hold no innocence no wonder at friendships genuinely given and shock at pain deliberately caused. Steely and cutting, my laugh would be. I would hurt when hurt, hurt when unsure, hurt when loved, hurt when appreciated, hurt when attacked.

my smile holds me up
         reminding me to never let the stream run dry. to always laugh a little, and then a lot. to know well the wrongs I've done or endured and to strive to be better than those. reminding me that the light in me can overshadow the darkness. reminding me that I can heal my hurts if I hold still long enough for the smile to spread its warmth.

so I tilt my head to the side. I shut my eyes. I play a song I like. or I go for a run to get the frustration out and with each kilometer my pounding heart beats the darkness out with fists of fury and my smile...lying on the cold floor of the dark, wet room, takes tentative steps and then starts to run.

I love my smile. it is welcoming when it is real. it is blinding when it is needed. it is my badge of courage.

....mental

A friend told me he learned to compartmentalize and perfected mental speed-searching because he needed to. That's me paraphrasing. But you should get the gist. 

 

You learn as you grow older that this is a necessary skill to have. 

You choose what has the power, if any, to shake you.

 

You screen your emotions and learn to be joyful when you're grieving, upbeat when you're depressed, friendly when beneath the surface you're seething with anger, pleasant when the sarcasm is simmering underneath and like a pressure pot something just wants to let loose, calm when your emotions are a riot, respectful when you really just want to tell the other person just how much of an ass you think they are and politely tell them to ‘with due respect’ stop being a jerk-off.

 

Duplicitous? I think not.

 

 

For every reaction or action is just a notch on a number line of emotions or actions. So you learn to choose your battles. You learn to live in a manner that doesn't leave too many unanswered questions in your head. You learn to give yourself permission to be more than the sum of your emotions and fears. You learn to exhale

It's all in my head

Ø  When I become president Port Harcourt will have a minister of appropriate attire. Stiff penalties for dressing your body like it belongs to someone you'd never met and were misled regarding their proportions and complexion, etc.

 

Ø  When I become president places of worship will have their public address systems turned inwards own their own internal public and churches too stingy to pay proper organists who don't make their audience tone deaf will be banned from having anything louder than their palms to make music with.

 

Ø  When I become president places of worship will be treated like markets: situated in one long stretch of shops or buildings. Mosques, churches, shrines etc. all mixed up. Let's see y'all bomb one another or try to coexist without some sort of truce. 😏

 

Ø  When I become president: phrases like 'only in Naija', 'the good old days' etc will be heavily frowned upon and those who utter them, fined and given large dog tags to wear with the inscription 'oh drat, I was an ass'😒

The air hostess

ME: irked, make that highly irritated and spoiling for a fight. At about 20 minutes till midnight, my 7:15 aero flight was well over 4 hours late. Airport was a quiet place, a seeming ode to lost hope and perished dreams. Everything seemed to work together to get me to tip over. 

 

From network issues which caused a 2-minute check in procedure stretch to over 10 even though there was just us: two tired colleagues desperately hoping for a miracle at the check-in counter, to the lavatory attendant who had to be harangued by her colleagues into divulging the secret hiding place of the last half-roll of toilet paper, on to the security clearance officers who seemed convinced that the best way to put late night domestic flight suckers like myself at ease was through loud debates on the chance of the flight making it at all tonight. 

 

So it was a night slowly teetering on the edge of a collapse into i-still-am-not-quite-sure-what. 

 

Getting into the plane with my fellow zombie-like travelers, I made a beeline for the lavatory only to stop short when I saw the person exiting the only now available bathroom. I knew it wasn't a good idea. You just know don't you, when someone has left a four-letter word of a smell behind. I cringe at the memory but yeah I still had to use it. 

 

I counted the heads of my fellow passengers. We were 17, or was it 18, I'm not quite sure now. Made my way back to my seat and eagerly sank into 3A: thankfully whoever bought that seat changed their mind and after over 3 hours spent lying in a fetal position at the airport, the extra leg room was a blessing I couldn't pass up. 

 

"Yes my phone is in flight mode", I repeated for the second time in less than 30 seconds to the air-hostess showing her the game I was playing. Second time around I looked up with all of the irritation I felt only to lock eyes with the most tired of eyes I'd seen in a while. And my irritation vanished. She looked so dead-on-her-feet tired and I started to imagine what the schedule changes would have meant: the longer hours on her feet than planned, the short words from passengers whose schedules had been disrupted, the lack of rest, the hours spent serving refreshment and collecting trash when passengers were done. It was a sad 'aha' moment for me. 

 

I've met the friendly and the surly, the professional and the crass, the subtle and the loud. Until tonight I'd never seen the quiet desperation and frustration. It's a lesson I hope I recall the next time I fly. Everyone could do with a little kindness.